Lara of Arabia
by The Masked Writer1
Summary: A story of woman who followed Lawrence through his journey, a journey that became one of love, battles, and self-discovery...
1. Cairo

**So here is my Lawrence of Arabia fanfiction! This fanfiction will be based almost entirely on the movie and its storyline, including some possible facts from the life of the real TE Lawrence. I hope you will enjoy this.**

**Interesting fact-When making the movie, at the Aqaba scene, O'Toole falls off his camel, like the real Lawrence so many years ago. Someone stood over him and protected him from the trampling hooves of the horses behind him.**

**Now transport yourself to the early 1900s in the hustle and bustle of Cairo, Egypt...**

The hot, dry air of Cairo hit my face as I stepped out of the black British consulate car that I fear had absorbed the burning rays of the Egyptian sun.

'Here we are Miss.'

I brushed a lock of golden brown hair out of my face as I graciously thanked the driver before stepping out into the bustling city of the Nile; in front of me was my future, the building where a fantastic adventure lay waiting. With awe clearly written on my face, I stepped forward, only to be unceremoniously helped to detach my dark green skirt from the rear door I had stepped out of. I was suddenly painfully aware that I would be the sole woman in this establishment that I had dreamed of.

'Good luck, Miss', repeated the driver cordially, in an almost robotic manner.

I could almost make out pity in his eyes as he drove away, leaving me standing, rather forlornly as I stared at the building in front of me with mixed emotions.

Who was I?

What was I doing here?

I, Lara Grecoff, have always striven for adventure, my father though hungered for it even more. He himself, a wealthy and influential Canadian politician, had travelled the world, from the Jungles of Borneo to the peaks of the Himalayas, he was the reason I was here. He, being in close connection with the British government learnt of the imminent Arabic revolt even before the Great War had even begun. I felt tears trickle out of my eyes like my life blood.

I hated when I cried. At least, in front of people I did. I had always been one to show my emotions freely and with liberty, until I was faced with the opportunity to come here. I swore I must never cry, for I was a woman, and crying shows weakness, if I cried, it would be all over. People wouldn't take me more seriously than they ever would, and I would be on a boat back to North America with a feeling of failure in the pit of my stomach in no time. No, I must never, ever, cry.

Only, when I thought of my cousin, just slightly older than me, with his happy go lucky ways and his smile that could be make everyone come running for fear it would disappear in a flash, I felt that my heart would explode. These past years, with the war and the like, seem to have only brought sorrow and misery; but not for my father. My father, strong as ever, when the whole world seems to be coming down on us. He with his Arab Revolt and its effect on the 'damn' Ottoman Empire, and the world. I hate to say this, or even think of it, but my father being an old and fiercely opinionated Russian, had grudges like still fresh scars against the Turks. Just the mention of 'Turkish Baths' or 'Turkish Delights' had him growling like a pariah hound. His great-grandfather, a valiant Cossack, had been killed in cold blood by the Turks because of some ancient feud between the Russians and the Turks; but not before he had been subjected to unspeakable cruelties and humiliation, such as whippings, beatings, and rape. Great-great grandfather Petya is said to have lived long after that, but is said to have been haunted mercilessly by the past. I am told that he woke up in the nights screaming as if a demon had possessed him, even into what should have been a peaceful old age. I shivered and prayed I would never have to witness or have to experience anything as horrifying as that in my lifetime.

In any case, my father was strictly resolute that I be an integral part of this rebellion. I was shocked the moment I heard this, and a hodge-podge of excitement and confusion bubbled inside of me as I tried to imagine riding camels in the Sahara.

'But, but, how?' my voice quivered.

'I'm not sure yet, _malynchka, _but if I have any say in this, you are going to be part of this Revolution!' his eyes glistened in the lamplight.

'This is impossible!' I cried, 'besides I'm not a man—what do you expect me to be, a nurse, and treat bullet wounds?' I frowned with disgust. 'I'm not a puppet to be tampered with! I have a future, now that I have finished university, and I have a career to pursue...writing perhaps...' my voice faltered for a second.

'Yes,' my father said tentatively never averting his gaze for a moment, 'only you have to travel the world, like I did, do something that will benefit, mankind-a civilization that once was great must be resurrected!' he bellowed. 'Besides, you have taken humanitarian studies at university, how could they refuse your assistance? I would never doubt you could make an intelligent adviser or perhaps even document the journey; opportunities such as these cannot be passed up! You have all the training necessary, I made sure of that while you were at university.

'You told me you wanted me to be well-rounded,' I mumbled weakly.

My father only looked at me slyly. 'It is hard for a girl of your calibre to get a good education these days, but I made sure you got it.'

I looked up at him; a spark of thankfulness in my eyes. What he said was true. If I hadn't studied what I had at university, I might have not been the person I was today.

'I know, I know your concerns, but did I ever tell you about McMahon?' he said.

'Who?' I questioned, a touch of irritation still in my voice.

'Sir Henry McMahon, he is the High Commissioner of Egypt, he and I once took a trip down the Amazon together, quite a dashing fellow, at least, I believe he still is the High Commissioner...' a moment of uncertainty upon my father's face. 'I saved his life; he could never refuse me.. .'

For a moment I felt like a spoiled child getting every wish and whim of hers simply because of her wealthy, generous father; but I shook the thought away as quickly as it appeared, I was not that kind of person.

His words sank in. I suddenly wanted this all. The experience. The world.

'My dear, I also, must say, I've never known you to shy away from a good fight.'

Before I could process any second thoughts, I was on a boat leaving my known world behind and heading out to a far way continent. To a land of frightening men with sabres in their teeth, and sultans with exquisite fountain filled palaces and veiled women hiding seductively under their silken cloth in royal harems. At least, that is what I had been preparing for, I even had two rifles and my father's scimitar tucked under my clothes, which he warned I must keep under my pillow every night. Thankfully, I was not one of those women that fainted dead at the slightest things; whether they are blood or sights far worse than that.

I suppose you could say I was different.


	2. Entering The Lion's Den

**This segment was written three years ago. To whoever loyally waited for an update, I appreciate your devotion! Everything that will be posted as further chapters of my existing stories will probably have been written 3 years in the past, unless I state that they were not. Once more, might I add that when I wrote this I was much younger and my writing has improved since then, as have my ideas.**

I held my breath and stepped through the solid doors that seemed to bid my entry cautiously. I could not deny that my heart was beating with the intensity of a steam train, and I was finding it difficult to breathe. I managed to close my eyes and walk on.

'There must be women here' I repeated to myself over and over like a parrot with a speech impediment. 'Clerks, office workers...' somehow even though I knew that was not what I was here for, saying that in my head gave me small words of comfort.

Hitching up my skirts and adjusting my bonnet, I asked a solitary looking man sipping a sherry in the midday heat.

'Could, could you please direct me to the office of the High Commissioner?' I stuttered suddenly nervous.

The man gazed at me, scrutinizing my soul, before accepting me and replying,' upstairs melady,' I began to rush hurriedly away when he called out 'Is that a Canadian accent I here?'

'Uhh, yes, uh, yes!' I prepared myself for the obvious reaction.

A grin spread across the man's broad face. 'Well! We haven't had a Canadian here for at least 8 months! Indians, come and go, but whenever they see the desert, they run back from where they came. 'Specially the Southerners. Northerners usually stay. They have a desert there too, ya know?

I continued nodding, adjusting my bonnet—'uh, the- uh, High Commissioner?'

He smiled again 'Well, -uh, God Save the King!' he saluted before saying promptly 'second door from the left, big old room.'

I sighed thankfully and began my assent upstairs. My heart was involuntarily beating a mile a minute, and somehow I could not slow its awkward pattering drumming. Taking deep breaths I continued trying my best to calm my taut nerves.

I climbed holding onto my skirts, and reaching the proper floor I followed the man's instructions to a tee, noticing an officer's mess on my way, lazily inhabited by lounging officers, and petite waiters wearing distinctive red fez. My tongue watered, I knew it sounded childish, but I longed for a tart glass of lemonade.

With a quick intake of breath, I marched onward, hopefully with more confidence. Suddenly, that strange vertigo of fear and nervousness came at me again, and I leaned against the wall, pressing my damp hand against it, rethinking everything my father had said, in the space of what seemed like an hour.

'_They couldn't refuse you.'_

I came to the appointed door, only to hear words being spoken inside.

Words came forward jumbled at first for about 20 seconds, and I was unsure whether to interrupt. I could go back, I needn't stay here- maybe some family needs a nanny...

I heard a slow, carefully articulated voice say, 'There is indeed, he's of no use here in Cairo, he might be in Arabia. He knows his stuff, sir.

A loud, arrogant voice called back, 'He knows his books you mean, I've already sent out Colonel Brighton who's a soldier, and if Brighton thinks we should send him some small arms, we will.'

Who could this man be? I thought momentarily, this followed by a sinking feeling in my chest like a stone dropped in a pond. If this man was not wanted in Arabia, what chance did I have of ever making an appearance on the desert horizon?

It was now or never.

I entered.

I rapped on the already halfway open glass door.

'Excuse me, may I have a word?'

Silence.

'Come in,' the words were sudden but tentative at the same time.

I walked slowly in, carefully greeting the men with a bow. The man directly ahead of me must be McMahon I thought. He was large with a great moustache and hulking figure. The man not so far from him, was older, still large, yet in the manner of the distinguished French gentleman, cane placed on chair.

'You must be,' I extended my hand toward who I thought to be McMahon.

'Murray, General Murray, and you are?'

A cold sweat broke out on my palms, and my arm felt frozen in space.

'I was expecting to speak, speak, to Mr. McMahon...' my words evaporated like dew on a hot summer's day.

'McMahon no longer works here, he has left, and if anyone, I am the man to speak to, you are?' he looked at me questionably, the Frenchman nearby having raised his eyebrows accordingly.

A strange vertigo overcame me as I tried to digest the fact that McMahon was gone. What would I do? He was my only link to Arabia, and it was virtually impossible to contact my father now...

The words came out, surprisingly clear to my ears.

'I am Lara Grecoff, and my father is Vladimir Grecoff. He contacted McMahon recently, for me to come and to be involved in the Arab Revolution at the moment, as a journalist, someone to survey the situation, I have completed my studies at university only a year ago and have very good credentials but I have been spending extra time getting experience in the journalistic field and field of writing. I have never intended to be a full-time journalist, but one of my fields is humanitarian studies, and since this is the perfect time and place to get experience in both my humanitarian field and my writing field...'

'The revolution?' Suddenly the moustachioed man laughed uproariously.

'What revolution? I tell you Dryden- a sideshow of a sideshow!'

I felt myself turning red with shame and embarrassment.

Likewise Dryden, the rotund Frenchman seemed slightly peeved as he ejaculated 'Big things have small beginnings, sir.'

Murray seemed as if he wanted to give a response merited of his title, but instead turned his attention toward me.

'My young lady, and a very pretty young lady at that—if you want to be of any assistance, I suggest you see if there are any openings in and around the-uh- telephone operators! Now please, if you would excuse us, if you wish to find some job openings speak to Mr. Harthwaite, downstairs -first-'

Bile rose in my throat. Had he been listening to a word of what I was saying? Was my gender simply an indicator that I was perfectly helpless and useless in this place?!

'No!' I cried indignantly. 'My father wished me to speak to McMahon, and if there is any way I may contact him-!'

'McMahon returned to London one week ago I am afraid, which must be a great misfortune to you, but no great loss to us. _I am sorry but you are useless to us, so please leave.'_

I felt on the verge of tears. My vision clouded and I forced myself to control my sensitive nature. My jaw quivered and I was ready to give a retort that would knock that bully Murray out of the park even when everything was against me.

'I am sure you can find me in the files here,' I continued my voice cracking...'My arrival-!'

'I am sure your _arrival _was completely unexpected Miss-'

Suddenly, a man stepped in, looking suspiciously like the one that I spoke to before. He clicked his heels true English style before announcing 'Lawrence, sir.'

I only stared at Murray, anger still alive in my chest, like a brewing thunderstorm, but I was forced to turn my attention to the young man who jauntily walked in, somehow looking like a frisky colt among old buzzards.

'Good morning, sir.'

The well-rehearsed words were caught in his throat as his eyes rested upon me, and all of a sudden I felt a strange shiver go through my body as we made eye contact.

Under the gawky uniform, I admired his attractive face, perhaps not at its fullest under the large cap that covered it, but very feminine, and dare I say it, pretty? Rich, black lashes framed shockingly blue eyes, marine blue in fact, harbouring great intelligence, and with much pressure beneath them. Boringly blue eyes. Breathing suddenly became a chore.

'I'm sorry to interrupt...' his lovely eyes moved over me, brimming with questions.

'Come in, Lawrence, we were just finishing...now,'

'_I am sorry_, but I shall not leave until I get _some_ sort of reference!' I tried.

'Excuse me but, what seems to be the problem?' Lawrence asked sending eyes riveted toward him.

'As I said, _we were just finishing, _but if you must know, _Lieutenant Lawrence, _this young lady, Miss Grecoff, seems to be interested in being of help in—Arabia!' the words came out in a half-chuckle, but his mirth was greeted with stony silence from both Dryden and Lawrence.

'A journalist, or a person to assess the situation, her with her _humanitarian studies,_ which in fact was just what I wanted to speak to you about, Lawrence. I intend for you to join Brighton. Why the Arab Bureau wants you there, I simply don't know, you don't seem able to perform your present duties properly. Dryden, you can have him for six weeks. Might even make a man of him.'

Joy floated over Lawrence's face, but it was gone in a moment like a fleeting shadow. Whether it was for my sake or because he didn't want to betray emotion towards Murray, I could not tell. Only, it was hopeless in my eyes, so far, I could read him like an open book.

'As for you, Miss...Miss, _Grecoff..._What is that, Russian? What are you doing here; don't you have enough trouble where you're from as it is?'

My cheeks flushed once again, but before I could speak, Lawrence moved in.

'I'm sure you could find room for another person in your envoy, anything could happen, and even with a guide, one person is very vulnerable.'

I looked intently at the man that was putting his job and the mission of his life on the line for my sake. I was at a loss for words when faced with this chivalry. For a person he didn't even know! I was expecting every man I met to at least harbour some hostility for me (I evidently was not prepared for Murray), but this was completely new and frighteningly pleasant.

'Hah!' came Murray. 'A woman! As if Arabia isn't hostile enough for a man, for a woman, Lawrence, you're already quite strange, but these ideas of yours are bordering on mad.'

My heart sank, but in moments floated again.

'Yes, I know that, and I understand the calculated risk, but I believe that I could be a sufficient escort for Miss _Grecoff, _if she is everything we expect her to be, I believe we do need a person to help with the documentation of this experience,' he stuttered on this one, and I was sure I saw a fellow writer in his eyes, 'and I am quite sure her humanitarian experience would be very important, _essential, _in fact in a war zone!'

Murray gazed sceptically at me. 'Do you nurse, Miss Grecoff?'

'Um, oh, y-yes.' I stuttered. I shivered. I hated blood. I avoided any type of womanly nursing jobs like the plague. Even small children. I couldn't even stitch a wound.

'There, then,' Lawrence cried. 'Well, she would be a perfect addition to the envoy, wouldn't you agree, Murray?'

We made eye contact once again, and I smiled wanly at him, mentally crying my thanks.

A man came in suddenly, taking up Murray's attention with some business about artillery. Only, I didn't pay attention to this, too involved in gazing at Lawrence with a weird school-girl anxiety about me, before I realized in the eyes of everyone we were just insolent children.

'But there must be artillery!' Murray moaned to himself.

Dryden broke the awkward silence with the quick exclamation.

'So, this is something of an expedition. He...They must get to Yenbo, find a guide, find the Arabs, and get back, they can't do that in six weeks.'

'Two months then.'

My heart leapt into my throat.

'Three.'

'All right, three,' Murray looked honestly annoyed, but then his eyes alighted on me again.

'So, it seems, my dear, you are going to Arabia, I suggest you...'

'Yes, I know, keep a scimitar under a pillow every night!' my voice was involuntarily filled with enthusiasm, and I saw Lawrence smile at me, as if he wished to laugh aloud with happiness.

Turning to Dryden, Murray cleared his throat.

'Now would you let me do some work!'

'Thank you, sir,' Dryden motioned towards us to leave.

Lawrence walked forward eagerly.

'I would like to say, sir, I am very grateful.'

'Shut up, and get out.' I myself almost laughed aloud.

Lawrence briskly turned to leave, stopping only at the doorway to give a great salute, coupled with a monstrous 'Sir!'

I was crying, now, from holding in my laughter.

Not to be out done, I gave a voluptuous curtsy. Putting on my most serious and womanly face I said, 'My thanks are trivial in comparison to the things you have done for the men here. You are truly honourable general and- true gentlemen.'

All Murray could give was a weak 'Thank-you,' a stupefied look on his face.

I quickly joined Lawrence at the door, my heart pounding with adrenaline. He was a tall man, more handsome up close, and he really smiled at me then; a smile which seemed to electrify the air around us. Once again, I was left in stupor by his charms.

He grabbed my wrist then, pulling me into the hallway, giggling. Giggling! I didn't believe I had ever heard a man giggle!

'I don't believe I had ever seen such a look on Murray's face!' he looked into my eyes again. 'Miss Grecoff.' He raised his eyebrows at me.

'Lara, my name is Lara, and I don't believe I shall ever know why you stuck your neck out for me, Mr. –Lawrence.'

'Lawrence, just, Lawrence.'

At that moment I spied a loose kiss curl of the richest colour of gold, like ripe hay; and I thought that only women went into the category of blonde and blue-eyed beauty. Now, I was beginning to rethink those theories.

'You shall know in due time,'

'Or is it because you're simply a gentleman and you don't believe a woman like me can stand up for herself?' I couldn't help it. The words flew out of my mouth making me wish I could eat them. I was teasing the man who saved my hide!

'Not in front of Murray,'

'I most certainly could, _Lawrence!' _

'We better catch up to Dryden, _Lara!'_

He grasped my wrist again, and a familiar tingle went up my spine as we rushed forward to catch up to the man who dawdled ahead of us.

As we walked into Dryden's room, Lawrence asked 'So, what is the job anyway?'

'Find Prince Feisal.'

'When I've found him?'

'Find out what kind of man he is, find out what his intentions are, not his immediate intentions, - that's Colonel Brighton's duties...But find out his intentions in Arabia altogether.'

Dryden's eyes gazed over us approvingly.

'Prince Feisal's brothers?' I mentioned.

'You do seem informed, Miss Grecoff, as for his brothers, I believe you shall see one of them, before you head out for Feisal. You shall be on a journey across the Red Sea, and will most likely meet him before you start toward Feisal. He, at the moment is not of _great _importance, but...'

'That's new,' Lawrence had sauntered over to an Egyptian statue of a cat.

He slowly turned though, 'Where are they now?'

'Anywhere between ten miles of Medina, they are Hashemite Bedouins, they can cross sixty miles of desert in a day,' I moved closer, almost unbelieving that these strange fantasies of mine were coming true in the form of real people who could perform fantastic feats.

'Dryden, this is going to be fun,' Lawrence lit a match in milliseconds, and I saw my excitement reflected in his eyes.

Dryden smirked.

'Lawrence, only two kinds of creature get fun in the desert, Bedouins and gods, and you're neither.'

'Take it from me, for ordinary men; it's a burning fiery, furnace.'

My first thought came in the visualization of Dryden sweating an ocean atop a camel in the desert and my second in the strange thought that Lawrence was not an ordinary man.

'No, Dryden, it's going to be fun.'

The match was lighted and connected with Dryden's cigarette.

Lawrence held the match up, and rolling his sleeves looked at it as if it were a crystal ball, holding the future in its quivering flame...

'It is recognized, that you have a funny sense of fun.'

I wryly interjected 'Perhaps that's why most of us are here, because we have a funny sense of fun.'

. . .

In a whirlwind of preparation and acknowledgment of my unprecedented arrival, we finally managed to leave. I found myself getting to know Lawrence better, and I was refreshed by the mind of a fellow writer. We were trapped; having tangled each other in our charms. Or so, that was how it seemed. For when Lawrence walked into a room, he always made it seem as if Apollo himself had blessed us with his arrival. In fact we only knew each other for just over a week. Most people though, considered him either very peculiar or simply a clown, while, dare I say it, I saw something _more_ in him. Beneath that thin veneer of delicate German-Russian attractiveness (blonde-hair, blue eyes, aquiline nose, and very black brows and lashes, similar to my own), I saw something wild and dangerous, a flame that glowed and flickered like the match he held the day I met him, a flame that could nurture and protect, burn and devour, a flame that could one day set the desert on fire. I even thought I saw madness veiled under those blue eyes. I was terrified of him, but it was that kind of exultant, awe-stricken, heart-quickening terror, that drew me to him, like a moth to a lamp. I saw my own inner fire, inside of him and I saw many other things that cannot be described. He was everything I loved and detested about humanity, he was a man without comparison, not Napoleon or Julius Caesar, he was greater than the sum of his parts, he was everything and anything, and without knowing it, I adored him and worshiped him. Already these feelings for him were beginning to develop inside of me, but they were not yet realized, they were just the way that he walked, his _stature, _his voice, or the way that he laughed.

The night of our departure, we were both on the bow of the streamlined ship, I laughing as Lawrence shot bottles of the deck of the boat. My laughter subsided as the last bottle cracked into splintered glass and shot off into the foaming star-specked sea.

The night was like a rich blanket, only restless, filled with the promise of a new day and a coming adventure.

The other men had already retired, grudgingly leaving us for our charades, probably thinking that shooting bottles off the deck was a harmless way to exert the energies of a young man who had a few too many glasses of wine that night.

I grabbed Lawrence's arm. 'Our destination is far over the wide ocean, do you believe we shall ever get there?'

Lawrence gazed into my eyes, perfectly sober in the intensity of his gaze.

'I shall not rest until I have built Jerusalem in England's green and pleasant land.' His melodious voice floated over the churning waves.

'I'm afraid you're doing exactly the opposite.'

He chuckled, a lovely lilting sound which plucked my heartstrings.

'That, we shall.'


	3. Desert Dreams

Sand, sand...Endless, rolling dunes, of silt-soft rich, golden sand which caressed your fingers like fairy dust when you held it, but stung your face with the fury of killer hornets during a storm.

Already, I felt words and stories pop into my brain like newly inflated helium balloons. This fabulous land that I had entered had all the makings of a century of novels, with plenty of room left for more. I was in ecstasy as I realized the potential for fantasies involving hideous burrowing trolls, 7 metres long, mysteries filled with beautiful countesses who were seeking vengeance against jewel-laden medicine-men who had poisoned their husbands, and adventures with stir-crazy archaeologists searching for lost tombs and necropolises is the cliff-sides.

A nasty jerk of my she-camel's head (who I had secretly named Mimosa for my own reasons) awoke me from my silent reverie. I grunted as I changed my position on my saddle, which admittedly had taken quite a bit of getting used to on my part. I was prepared to stay silent though throughout the laborious riding, which thankfully was not unlike the swinging of the boat which we had crossed the Red Sea on, before entering port. There we had admired the town's distinctive features, walking amid the peaceful dustiness and trying to peek through the lacy niches that served as windows. It was very beautiful, as quiet as it was, and I was quick to observe the veiled women as they scuttled into doorways like little black mice in the shadow of our tread. Might I add, we also paid a visit to the distinguished brother of our dear monarch Feisal, who was helpful, but as we suspected aboard ship, not the man we needed to lead the people. He served a sumptuous meal to us in the mid-morning day which consisted of everything from almond biscuits, to sweet dates, ripe olives, and juicy figs. Thankfully my courteous and respectful demeanour was repaid duly.

I stretched my tendons, and wiggled my feet with relief, for they had been plagued with Charlie horses all day. I once again revelled in the feel of pants. Ah! Pants! Thy softness against my poor legs! I had recently adopted the officer's dress for obvious reasons, and in no way did I miss the horrid skirts I was used to! Yes, I can now say horrid! Awful, despicable! My only problem being the measures on my uniform which were a bit off-hand- since they were made for a man of course. A bit baggy on the hips and arms, and tight across the chest, so I would be catching strange looks from my counterpart if a button popped by chance.

It seemed I had completely forgot about my other companions who had stopped to rest beside me, and I looked up to see Lawrence gazing over the dunes in much the same way I had done, his eyes glowing like two brilliant opals excavated from Ali Baba's treasure cave.

'Here you may drink.'

The Arab we had acquired was a stern man. So far, I had not seen him smile once, and his conduct toward both of us was one and the same, chilly. Assuredly, his conduct toward me having first met was nothing less than awkward. Him having stared at me for a veritable 18 seconds, before shaking his head slowly and mumbling 'What is the world coming to?' in Arabic was not exactly reassuring. On the bright side, he didn't to portray too much outward hostility, but of course all that could change in a matter of moments I was sure, even by the slightest misconduct- at least that was my theory. Prince Feisal would be another matter altogether, for better or worse, I could not say.

'One cup.'

I almost cried out with relief! Water! Sweet elixir! I could feel my mouth watering as the container began to empty. I eagerly awaited my turn, but was unexpectedly thwarted by Lawrence's pride.

'You do not drink?'

I felt the urge to slap him, rising in my chest. Of course not, _his _pride wouldn't let him drink in front of a British officer, I'm sure!

'No.'

'I'll drink when you do,' I closed my eyes slowly, cursing under my breath.

'I am Bedou,'

Lawrence turned to me, offering me the coarse metal jug.

A sickly sweet smile spread across my face.

'No thank you,'

Unfortunately, I too, was blessed with that infernal emotion known as pride.

. . .

The slow trotting of the camels creates a rhythm which makes drifting hard to resist. Drifting- that beautiful release from the world, which may begin in the form of thought, before progressing to the point where one is staring at a place, focusing pointlessly until one's mind dislocates from one's body, which can be potentially fatal. We both became informed that falling off one's camel is not a pleasant experience. I reminded myself to stay alert, but inevitably my thoughts wandered.

I remembered aboard our ship, it was as I recall the _S.S Arabia_ our some fool thing like that, on one of our last night's of the journey how a quite intoxicated Lawrence (they did have great quantities of liquor aboard the boat) chased me from bow to stern in attempt to kiss me. I turned a couple of shades of pink at the recollection. I had evaded him for some time, laughter tainting my lips, my skirts still tripping me, when at the stern he finally caught me from behind, wrapping his arms around my waist and placing his hands on my thighs. I struggled fruitlessly, but in reality, my heart was close to leaping out of my chest, and my body was tingling pleasantly as he spun me around to nibble my neck. His teeth bit me gently as I sensed his warm tongue make contact with my skin. I was shocked at both his action and my response of allowing him to keep his hands firmly placed below my breasts. Only then, did our captain enter the scene, interrupting who he called the 'Midnight Lovers'. Even now, I was confused. I had long heard of soldier's chasing pretty girls to kiss, intoxicated our not, but Lawrence's act of veritably trying to make love to me left me speechless.

Make love.

That strange tingling sensation returned. I being a virgin was both titillated and frightened of those words. The only thing I could recollect about making love would be what old matrons whispered about, and the idea of such painful grinding left me slightly nauseated. If the captain hadn't come though, would Lawrence have kissed me harder? What would I have done? Assuredly, run, struggle more, cry out for help...The only other option would be to respond to these touches, these advances, yet, doing such a thing would...I shivered. Had I wanted the captain to come, to make those sweet lips stop their soft, firm caresses? Was I mad? Was it just desire whispering sweet nothings in my ear?

My head snapped up. Not a couple of feet away, was the same man who had so ruthlessly tried to kiss me a few days ago. He could have been a completely different man. Solemn, focused. Intently looking around him at what looked like gigantic stone pyramids. They were magnificent, but all I could see was _him. _That night- his usually perfectly combed golden hair was bedraggled, kiss curls hanging, eyes glimmering, smile playfully seductive.

I tried my best to copy Lawrence now. Trying to think elsewhere, looking far into the distance, perhaps until the sands swallowed me once again.

. . .

The night was a rich blanket which enveloped us all in its silky embrace. Our campfire was turning into a pile of flickering ashes, and we snuggled into our sleeping bags, divulging into meditative silence. It was our first night out on the open sand, and talk that night was virtually non-existent. Only, it seemed as if a storm was quietly brewing, as the fire died in the same manner.

The heavens above were utterly incredible, for away from bright city lights, there was nothing in the way of the untarnished Milky Way. The stars twinkled peacefully, and I contemplated their affect on us in the thick silence.

Lawrence beside me lounged comfortably, whereas I huddled, holding my knees to me, eyes darting from him back to me.

'It's a beautiful night, isn't it,' I suggested.

'Surely,'

'I, I'

'Hmm... .'

'Nothing, I just remembered something,'

'You know what this makes me think of? When I was small, I used to think the stars were the eyes dead people, winking down at us.'

'What..!'

'I know it's foolish,'

'More frightening than foolish...'

'How did you come up with that?'

'My brothers told me,'

A pause.

'My brothers were both killed in battle,'

I didn't say anything, not even a startled oh; I just took Lawrence's hand and pressed my thumb into his palm. It seemed like the only proper thing to do, somehow a gesture of comradeship, between two souls having wandered out into the desert only to find each other.

Exhaustion swept over me, and I was forced to lie down, cradling my head in my arms, as I touched Lawrence's arm once more in an act of reassurance. My breathing slowed, yet I was still conscious to hear our Bedou pose a question.

'Truly, you are a British officer?'

'Yes,'

'From Cairo?'

'Yes,'

'You did not ride from Cairo?'

'No,'

'Thank heavens, it's five hundred miles, we came by boat,'

'And before, from- Britain?'

'Yes,'

'Truly?'

'From Oxfordshire,'

'Is that a desert country?'

'No, fat country, fat people,'

'You are not fat?'

'No, I'm different,'

Those were the last words I heard before sleep overcame my senses.


	4. The Well

**I know, I know it's copied verbatim from the film. I know it's all hopelessly contrived and I am making this character sound like Gertrude Bell. I AM SORRY! Once more, I wrote this originally three or four years ago when I was much younger and less imaginative..**

The next morning I awoke before the others, just as dawn broke over the horizon; it had been a night of deep sleep and no dreams for me, which was, frankly, unusual.

Yet, I in no way regretted being an early riser, as I watched over the dunes as the burning fiery orb began its ascent in the sky with agonizing slowness, as if it was proving that it was the all-powerful fireball which ruled us in the desert, while we were mere humans, who toiled under its malevolent gaze.

As these thoughts whirled through my head, like swirling gases, I did not happen to notice Lawrence who had apparently woken up, and was staring at me, with a grin on his face as I admired the sky.

'You're awake?' he turned to me.

'Certainly,' I mimicked something he might say.

'The sun is most golden and glorious this morning, Lieutenant Lawrence...' I continued in a droning monotone.

'Indeed, I believe we shall experience the full force of our celestial dead weight in a few hours, Miss Grecoff,'

'Yet, if a solar eclipse darkened our heavens, would it so darken our hearts, also?' my words fell on deaf ears.

'I hate this useless, chitchat. Come here, I want to show you my notebooks,'

A smile lit my face as I looked on intrigued at a thick leather notebook that was thrown in front of me. I picked it up gently, brushing off particles of sand, and gently opened its pages with reverence.

'I've been writing approximately since the Red Sea, and when we went into port, for I'm sure I must at least document the bare facts for now. My prologue though was started earlier on, though'

I moved in closer, scanning the journals. Descriptions and musings of the war, Feisal, the Arabs, their history, my mind spun with the quantity of facts I had acquired in a few pages.

'If you ever managed to publish a whole book, it would certainly be a triumph,' I finished with awe as I looked upward eyes glimmering.

An icy chill ran through me all of a sudden. 'Certainly, I couldn't write this, nor have the passion- I think I am more set on documenting fictional fantasies. As far as journalism went, it was all about getting writing experience,'

I bit my lower lip, 'In any case, it almost seems like theft or cheating to have me here in the same position as you, what in the world do I have to offer here? So far, I feel pointless,'

Lawrence looked at me intently, raising my chin carefully. His mouth was set into a thin line and his gaze was remarkably steady and intense.

'You have come here to offer what you have, which is more than either of us will hope to gain from the other. You have already proved yourself, to me, to Dryden, and to Murray. You just have to _keep_ proving yourself. It may not be easy, but you are the only one of us that knows the real reason you're here,'

I closed my eyes momentarily and thought about Lawrence's hopeful words. My father? Mostly. After all, it was his idea, but, I could have refused. I could have meekly told him that I had no red blood, that I wasn't interest. Yet, I accepted, I persevered, learning about Arab culture, reviewing politics, planning for an expedition, and bringing along several journals, packing re-packing, and contacting family and friends. At the time, fear or doubt had never entered my brain. It was something I had been waiting for all my life, but I just hadn't realized.

I opened my eyes. Our Arab had awakened, and new energy was rushing through my veins.

New reason filled me, and my own personal mission became as clear as a bolt of lightning out of the blue. It was as if the reason for life had just made itself clear to me. Breakfast past sluggishly, as we were offered pasty white food that looked suspiciously like maggots, and tasted suspiciously fatty and spongy at the same time. Possibly the best part, was Lawrence having forged a new friendship with our guide, something I was sure would come in handy.

Our mood having lightened, the day spent riding under open sky was, in fact, enjoyable, and I eagerly spoke to Lawrence on occasion when our camels neared each other in their continuous rhythm.

As we mounted a particular hillock of sand, our guide jumped off, as he pointed out into the distance in a manner which made me fear that we may be in dangerous territory.

'Bedou,' the words in this context were spine-chilling, and the three of us, dismounted our camels to try to spot the ones who had halted our expedition.

Lawrence made use of the binoculars hung around his neck for this purpose, as I likewise tried without, but to no avail.

'From here to Lord Feisal's camp is Hareth country,'

I racked my brain, ah, the Hareth! Information flooded my mind as I remembered what I had learnt.

'Yes, I know,' came Lawrence, and his words provided not the slightest comfort.

'I am not Hareth,'

'No, Ha-'

'Hazimi of the Beni Salam,'

Our words melded into one statement. We broke off as we realized that we had just said the exact same thing in almost perfect synchrony. Our eyes met, and as I felt those marine spheres bore into me once again, I honestly hoped that some of the emotion that pinched me would become evident to him. In fact, I felt my cheeks become hot, and I couldn't stop smiling in an idiotic way afterward.

. . .

We continued, descending a steep incline, and leading our camels hazardously behind us. I was very careful with each movement, hands sweating buckets with the fear I may come tumbling down at any moment.

Lawrence in front of me moved more recklessly in the effort to catch up to our guide, who at but a few feet, moved with confident precision.

I grasped the rope which held my camel carefully, but still felt my feet shifting precariously. I finally realized that being at the back of the group was in no means a guarantee of safety.

Lawrence in front of me, was moving faster, and as I proceeded toward him in the hope of conquering this slope once and for all, was interrupted by his own slip.

I gasped letting go of my camel to help him up, when tripping over my rope I crashed onto him, so that we found ourselves rolling together the rest of the way.

There was no time to give a cry as we tumbled to a halt below, I having landed directly atop him, so that I was literally lying, my legs spread across his navel, my hair having flown in all directions.

Still overcome with shock I barely registered when Lawrence jokingly commented,

'I rather like this position,'

I immediately got up, the familiar heat returning to my cheeks as I struggled for much need words.

Bedraggled Lawrence likewise raised himself, and somehow, I laughed.

Tears staining my cheeks, I laughed, which was how our helpful guide found us, on the ground again, clutching each other in a delicious moment of hysteria.

. . .

We had been going at a steady trot for a good while, but, eventually, we halted once again, to my surprise for a lesson in camel riding.

'Put your right foot in front, lock it with you left foot, then when you're ready to go, hit her on the shoulder and say, hut, hut, hut!' Adequate hand gestures were provided to illustrate the situation.

I gave a small smile of superiority remembering how our guide had grudgingly complimented my superior riding abilities earlier, before Lawrence gave a shout of 'Hut, hut- hut!'

Suddenly, his camel bolted with impressive speed, and as the guide looked on with alarm, he disappeared over a nearby dune. I slapped my camel eagerly, as we headed off to see what we could see.

I gave a raucous cry, half of mirth and half of pain. I immediately jumped off, to attend to the fallen Lawrence, who sat lopsided on the sand, his camel groaning frantically.

I reached my hands out, brushing away his hair and feeling his face gently, fingering his cheekbones, a laughable expression on my face.

Lawrence didn't seem to be overly enjoying the attention, but I felt it by duty to baby him.

'You poor thing!' I chuckled, admiring the hard contours of his muscles as he got up with a small 'hmmpff' to restore his bruised dignity.

Likewise, our Bedou behind us, tried to disguise his laughter in the form of an unfortunate clucking.

'Today will be difficult, but tomorrow, good riding!'

. . .

Riding continued day in and day out, with a fantastic number of failures on both our parts, and an adequate number of successes. Thankfully, we made good time, and the evening was made to rest, as we basked in the coolest hour of the day, exchanging conversation, writing (I was very much involved with documenting the anatomy of a camel and my story of the desert countess),and philosophizing. Philosophizing had always been a main pursuit of mine since childhood, and Lawrence mind was so refreshing, I could hardly wait for the evenings of discussions, headed by Lawrence's angelic drone, and thrust into confusion and chaos by my bright chirp. Our nights would eventually end though, and the soothing chatter of our own voices and the stillness of the night would lull to glorious slumber. Morning was always exciting, and after we ate, we headed out to see what new disasters we might encounter on our way. In no time at all we had made it to the Matzurah well.

The sloshing of water broke the stillness of midday, as our Bedou (whom I finally learnt was named Tabad) carefully reeled up a goatskin of purity.

The two of us both managed to get a drink, and thankfully, English chivalry applied, so that i managed to quench my aching thirst with a cool drink first. I regarded the dusty atmosphere around me as I drank, and it hit me how precious water must be to Arabs in a land such as this, for the way that sweet elixir tasted, I thought I was drinking honeyed wine, not brackish water.

'Good?' Tabad posed the question with a jolly note.

'It's alright,' Lawrence weakly said.

'This is a Hareth well, the Hareth are a dirty people,' muttered Tabad as if trying to make an excuse for the inferior water.

I laughed involuntarily. 'It's the best thing I ever tasted—and I think it's making me tipsy!' I whirled around, pretending to be drunk, before I stumbled on a loose stone on the side of the well. Horror lit my face as I fell, only to be caught by Lawrence, who had managed to keep a sharp eye out for me.

'Thank-you,' I mouthed, my eyes closed, and my breathing heavy with relief.

'All in a day's work, melady,'

'You saved my life!'

'I hope you would allow me the lengths to kiss thy hand,'

'Charmed,' I whispered as his lips touched my skin once again.

I followed as Lawrence sauntered over to a nearby mound, lying down comfortably on his side. I joined him, putting my head in my hands, as he pulled out the scope lens on his compass, whistling a tune I didn't recognize.

'Don't scope me!' I giggled.

'Hmm... .' Lawrence pretended to stroke his chin in mock arousal, eyes curved to slits.

'You are a filthy beast, and I hope I never lay eyes on you as long as I live!' I cried snatching away the compass.

'I'm afraid _Mademoiselle_-'I felt my wrists tighten in an iron grip, yet before I could give a joking groan of protest, the thud of the goatskin into the well distracted our attentions.

Tabad stood, just above the well, eyes staring into the innumerable distance I felt my veins run cold. Lawrence and I both turned, looking in the same direction, and as I felt the grip on my wrists slacken, I felt the blood in my hands return, thumping my pulse painfully loudly.

You could have heard a pin drop in the pervading silence.

In the distance a small black spot materialized before my eyes, and as we stood stock still gazing into the horizon, I believe an onlooker would have laughed at our helplessness.

'Turks,' Lawrence's words, cut through the air like a knife though hot butter.

Tabad had turned into a frozen statue. His whole body petrified, only his eyes animated.

'It must be an Arab!' I whispered frantically, 'A Hareth!'

The blurred image continued, nearing us with astonishing slowness, yet at the moment, I felt as if the whole world was centred in that moment. All of space and time in the head of a needle.

My heart thudded in my chest, and then, I could see the sweat glistening on Lawrence's brow, I sensed the wispy breeze cool my wet arms and legs, tasted salty blood in my mouth from biting down so hard on my tongue.

'Bedou,'

Seconds turned into hours, and still the sun beat down unmercifully above our bare heads.

Terror suddenly gripped me as I saw the swinging of the far-off man's capes, and I felt a nauseating churning in my stomach, as I continued to stare paralyzed with fear.

Closer, ever closer he came, a vision from afar, suddenly, real, alive, no longer an unreal shadow, no longer stuff of nightmares, but of flesh and bones.

Lawrence began to cautiously move, in choppy jerks closer to the well, motioning at me to stay behind. Glaring, I disobeyed him, the terror inside of me, only fuelling the urge to move, somewhere, and I craved Lawrence's reassuring stability beside me.

As if he was a mechanical puppet suddenly come to life, Tabad flew across the sand, already it was obvious his purpose. That was when I knew, for sure that our visitor was in no way a friend.

'Tabad!'

In a split-second I saw the gun steady, then a gunshot.

The gun flew directly to Lawrence's feet, and coldness filled my heart, for what had just occurred seemed utterly impossible.

Tabad's crumpled body lay on the sand like a tribute. A tribute to what? Survival of the fittest, survival of the one without mercy or rationality. Shoot first and talk later? I still could not comprehend that our guide was dead, shot by a pitiless monster. I felt myself quivering with rage.

Our black stranger trotted gradually closer, before alighting on the sand, and surveying our deceased comrade, face covered, and primitive bayonet slung over shoulder in a manner which made one believe that from doing such deeds all his life, that he was forcing himself to find some enjoyment in the act. Beside me, Lawrence, was likewise reflecting my emotions with an intensity which surprised me. In fact, I had seen him accepting and embracing Arab culture so much, to see him not defending it, but openly protesting its cruelty was close to frightening.

'He is dead,' our visitor sharply ejected.

'Yes,' Lawrence's voice cut like razors.

'Why?'

'He drunk from my well,'

'I drunk from it,'

'You are welcome,' finally the man's face appeared, revealing a great oily moustache and a darkly outlined visage.

'He was my friend,' I could not only see the rage, I could hear it now.

'He was both our friends!' I had felt forgotten up to now, and taking the opportunity I questioned 'What makes this _your _well...'

'Ali, Ali of the Hareth, and this well is a well which has been passed down from me by my father's fathers,' he was about to make a mocking bow when he looked at me, more intently at time, noticing for once, something different.

'A woman?' his words were filled with confusion and the slightest bit of respect.

'In all my days, I have never seen—'

'A Canadian woman, in uniform, standing up for what I believe is right, and trying to make sense of an event which causes horror to stir within me,' Even I was shocked by my own words.

Then, the strangest thing happened.

He laughed. Ali of the Hareth laughed a wondrous roar which was relinquished by the emptiness of the desert.

'Come closer, woman, you _minx_!' where he had learnt such a word I would never know, but I stood silently.

'No,'

In a moment, Lawrence grasped me.

'You won't lay a hand on her,' the resolution in his voice and the protective way in which he held me to him, was wonderful, but I felt the desire to fight my own battles strong within me.

Ali just smiled. He sauntered closer.

'This pistol yours?' the question was directed at Lawrence, but in that moment I saw him gleam his white teeth directly at me.

'His,'

The pistol went into the man's belt, and even though I felt the desire to ripple the pond by asking why he hadn't posed the same question to me, but I knew how unsafe it was for both of us.

The question was repeated again to Lawrence's metal cup, which was met with the answer 'Mine'.

'Then I will use it,' he proceeded to disrupt the well.

'Your friend, was a Hazimi of the Beni Salam'

'I know,'

'What was a Hazimi doing here?'

'We came to drink, Ali of the Hareth,' breaking my bonds, I came directly up to our opponent. For I had not only escaped the bonds of Lawrence's iron grip, but the bonds of fear which held be stronger than the most powerful chains. I was elated as I continued.

'We are on our way to see Prince Feisal, and I am sure you never intended to be an obstruction in our journey,'

I was preparing myself for everything, to be struck, grabbed, even rape could be survived with little mental trauma I hoped, but I never expected what would happen next.

He kissed me.

On the side of my face, in a quick gesture. I was stunned.

'Now, you were saying?'

Lawrence thankfully came to my rescue, for I had turned into a marble sculpture.

'We came from Cairo!'

'Indeed! I was in Cairo, for my schooling, I can both read and write,' Ali took a swig from the cup, and his gesture of indifference, stunned me, for I still could not understand his previous behaviour.

'Lord Feisal already has an Englishman,'

'Yes,' Lawrence's disgusted silence seemed to speak more than a furious speech.

'What is your name?'

'My name is for my friends,'

'None of my friends is a murderer,' the disgust rose like bile in his throat.

'You are angry, English,' Ali moved to his camel.

'He was nothing, the well is everything, the Hazimi may not drink at our wells, he knew that,'

I wished to form a response, but words could not form for, I was still motionless.

'Salaam!' I closed my eyes.

'Sharif Ali, as long as the Arabs continue to fight tribe against tribe, so long will they be a little people, a silly people, greedy, barbarous and cruel as you are,' to make his point, Lawrence brushed his uniform off, as if trying to rid himself of _Ali of the Hareth._'

In defiance, he grabbed the goatskin's rope and pulled it fiercely, in an effort to wash his face of the dark man.

Ali returned.

'I will take you to Feisal,'

'We do not want your company Sharif,'

'Wadi Safra is another mile from here. You will not find it, and not finding it, you will die,'

'What of you?' Surprisingly he turned to me again, his eyes roving me.

'I don't intend to die,' my words sounded weak to my ears.

'You shall not die,' suddenly his words became sweeter, yet they were sweet in the sense that there was respect in them.

'_We shall not die,'_ I held Lawrence's arm firmly, resolution sparkling in my eyes.

'Indeed,'

'We shall find it with this,' beside me Lawrence held up his compass, which Ali snapped up.

It seemed Ali of the Hareth was winning in the sense that he had us on strings, but we were winning in the power of our enduring determination.

'Good army compass, how if I take it?'

'Then you would be a thief,'

'Have you no fear, English?'

'None- might I add that he is the bravest man I have yet to know?' I courageously added. 'In fact, he is braver than the man who kills without fear, slaughters without justice, and brings glory to his people in the form of fresh blood! For, he-'here I moved closer to Lawrence, 'is a man of mercy,'

That familiar respect flashed in Ali's eyes once again.

'Truly,' but instead of returning the compass to Lawrence, it was given to me.

'Take it,'

Tentatively, I reached my hand out to take the compass, which I followed with a glare of triumph, and perhaps dual respect, for we were no longer enemies per-say, but two people that had managed to find momentary peace in the midst of their conflict.

'God be with you,' and in a flash, he was gone, as the Bedou go, disappearing over a stretch of vast sand.

The two of us who remained had only but a moment to catch our breaths.

Lawrence turned to me.

'Good army compass,' I meekly said, offering the compass, my eyes downcast.

I finally looked upward to see Lawrence's eyes shining as his gaze rested upon me.

'You are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met,'


	5. An Introduction To Feisal

**Once more, I am so sorry for this..*cries* I wrote this in the impetuousness of youth, when writing self-inserts was still cool.**

'As I walk along the Bois de Boulogne with an independent air!'

'_Chomnoya noch...'_

I'm the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo!'

Forgetting the ensuing lyrics, I gave musical 'na, na, na, na, na!' and tried to rack my brain for complimentary Russian folk songs, only I was drawing a blank as we tried to out-sing each other, having entered a cavernous valley of echoing granite cliffs.

Having escaped the Matzurah well and its baffling and unpleasant memories, we headed due west in the direction of Feisal's appointed camp.

All of a sudden, an unreal cry, entered our hearing, and our heads snapped around at the cry-

'You people!' we gazed in the direction of the voice came from in a mixture one quarter shock, one quarter relief, and one quarter disappointment that our karaoke session had been broken up.

In mere moments, we were sidled up against a thick-set man with a pudgy face and closely shaven head. He often snarled at the merest provocation and seemed the very embodiment of the English diplomat, rudely invading and controlling puppet monarchy.

'I've been waiting for your arrival,' he searched us intently, 'two people, I was told, by Feisal, one of them, apparently, a woman, I shall be pleased to inform him that his sources proved accurate,'

I looked into around me and was humbled to see Feisal's camp in the distance, a huddle of black tents with both camels and horses with elaborate feathers tethered beside them.

'As you probably know, my name is Brighton- you are?' he gestured toward us.

'Lawrence,'

I felt unsure how to answer, these people so used to calling each other by their last names.

'Miss Grecoff, but I prefer to be called by my first name, Lara,'

Brighton stiffened, 'All right then, well, I openly curious of your intentions here, Miss... .'

Lawrence stiffened likewise, 'She is here with exactly the same intentions of I, to _assess the situation_ as I was vaguely committed to do, and happens to be a very qualified individual for that matter,'

Feeling that protective flame flare up again, I felt my heart quicken with happiness.

'I see you are not English'

'No, Canadian,'

'Ah, well'

'In any case, the situation here is absolutely awful, no morale at all, and they just don't have anything it takes to form a properly formed army! The situation is utterly hopeless it seems, but I will make it clear, now and now only, that here I don't intend for you to be getting particularly chummy with these Arabs, they're goddamn savages!'

'Your guide?' Brighton motioned again.

I interrupted 'Killed,'

'I tell you, bloody savages,'

'How can you possibly blame an entire race of being savage, Brighton?' added Lawrence nonchalantly.

'A savage is a savage, a person who kills without thought or reason, and war! These people, have no discipline, no-'

'You seem to be speaking by British standards,' I said, 'Society is different everywhere isn't it?'

Lawrence had momentarily moved ahead of us, as Brighton turned to me with a glare.

'The world, has standards, Miss Grecoff, and we can't accept one violent people to put a blotch in our empire,' with that he clopped toward Lawrence, as I took a moment to catch my breath.

'_Empire,'_

'_Empire,'_

The word rung in my head like a tolling bell. I sat in my camel saddle feeling as if my heartbeat had stilled.

Arabia is meant to be added to the British Empire.

I should have known all along. I should have realized that the situation in my mind was laughable really. A powerful country sticking up for a less powerful one, simply because it hated its aggressor. Impossible, I know realized, as I chastised myself for being so pitifully naive. All they wanted was Arabia after all, simply another epic glory for the empire, another state to vanquish, this whole time, just another farce to rape a newly freed country.

How naive. How very, very naive.

I was shot back into reality by a horrifying boom which seemed like an ugly omen of things to come. I looked up, to see Turkish fighter planes, like buzzing hornets, having appeared virtually out of nowhere, proceeding to drop grenades down onto the camp with frightening regularity. Screams and the whinnying of horses could be heard from afar, and clucking to my nerve-racked Mimosa with alarm, I hastened to the side of my companions who sat, Brighton, his face unreadable and Lawrence, his face with more misery reflected in his eyes than fear.

People began to scatter like terrified termites, evacuating tents in the hope of safety in open air, clumping together like flocks of swallows, a sadly stupid thing to do. Their cries roared and jumbled as the fighter planes zoomed down like angry mosquitoes.

Suddenly, a figure appeared out of the swirling dust, astride a white stallion with beautiful feathers adorning its mane. With a great cry he raised his sword in the air calling all his men to 'stand and fight!' stand and fight!'

It was a truly pitiful scene. The fleeing warriors, broken by strain, with their leader, calling them all to defend their camp, with nothing but pure courage and pretty footwork.

Horses bolted into the frenzy as explosions created more waste, fire, smoke, and general debris to be scattered in all directions. In the centre of it all, Feisal, older than I expected, for I could see him clearly now, we having ignored the receding bombs and moved fully into the thrall. In fact, he couldn't have been very old. Only, trying to be a lord to his people, and protect them from animosity that came from all directions, must have been the reasons that his face was so deeply worn with pain and grief.

He noticed as then, the gnarled head looking toward us with blank eyes.

'Who are you?' his voice may have been heavy, but it still kept its dignity.

'Lieutenant Lawrence, sir and- Miss, er- Lara Grecoff,' Brighton grunted. 'Seconded to the Arab Bureau,'

'This is a bloody mess sir, we'll have to move south,' he added in a dark growl as he looked around at the destruction.

'Yes, Colonel, fifty miles south, you were right and I was wrong,' Feisal's voice harboured black humour.

I felt a sharpness stab my heart as I listened to the conversation, and I remembered Brighton's earlier words, '_empire', 'empire'._

'We must save some thought for the wounded,' Feisal's words trailed off into the distance like a lost dream.

'Well, we'll take care of them at Yenbo, sir,'

'If they can get to Yenbo,'

_Yenbo, Yenbo, Empire, Empire, they can't get away with this, I mustn't let them let get away with this. _

'Well, they can hardly come with us, sir,'

'No, but they must try to reach Yenbo,'

'Lieutenant- and Miss-?'

'Lawrence, and Miss Lara Grecoff,' Lawrence answered.

Trying to appear courteous I added 'We are very honoured and pleased to be in your prescience, Lord Feisal,' I bowed my head, gently as if apologizing for every fighter plane that dared attack such an illustrious camp as Feisal's. 'We all are deeply regretful of the fact that you happened to be in such a vulnerable position,'

Feisal gazed at me. 'You are a very considerate young lady, I fear in a situation which appears to be very inconsiderate to our people.'

He turned to Lawrence. 'For you see Lieutenant Lawrence, my people are unused to explosives and machines, he sighed, 'First the guns and now this', before turning and galloping away as if accepting his fate in a heart-breaking manner. Such a beautiful figure, a figure to lead the people with strength and justice, yet swept away by powers greater than him. It hurt to watch the solitary man ride away.

. . .

As darkness set in, cooling the land, a rag-tag group of wanderers began their march south, ever south. Everyone's heart was heavy with defeat, heads were low, and even camels seemed to drag their feet through the sand. Our course was monotonous and having learnt what I had about Britain's _real _interest in Arabia, I couldn't force myself to speak to Lawrence, which I attributed to menstrual pains, leaving him with a startled and hurt look upon his face. I'd always found it hard to lie, but lying to Lawrence was like stabbing myself in the ribs.

Riding continued on in the morning, a solemn yet dignified precession. Thoughts chased each other through my head like mating sparrows. _Can anything be done? Besides, the Arabs are in such a hopeless state, who could defeat the Turks? Even when the English try, they don't seem to be getting far. _I racked my brain. _Who cares, besides me and- Lawrence? You can see the fire, the sparkle in his eyes. He has told me about his involvement in the Arab Bureau; those who actually want to create an Arab state. I probably know him better than anyone else now...Afterward? If the war was won? If the revolution succeeded? What then?_ I knew I mustn't let this happen, _we _mustn't let this happen. Lawrence and I- only, as much as we needed our joint cooperation to make this work, I didn't- I couldn't tell Lawrence, what if it made him give of hope? What if it crushed him? I never knew Lawrence to be a weak figure, but all the same fear ate away at me. I felt the need to be secretive, but I knew it I had to tell him eventually. I couldn't harbour a secret like this forever.


End file.
